


Precious Memories

by Aidokime



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Injury, But not necessarily romance, Gen, Minor Violence, WWII, World War II, faint hints of possible romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 23:37:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14725758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aidokime/pseuds/Aidokime
Summary: NaNoWriMo project: The time is World War II, and two Allied Nations are missing in action, presumed dead or captured.  Mature for language and graphic blood. This can be considered pure crack.  Warning: yes there's a touch of UK/US France,Canada UK POVs





	1. Into the Fire

**Haltern, Germany: Midnight**

The world began with flame, and the sound of superheated metal giving way to crash to the forest floor.

It took him precious moments to gather what little remained of his wits and move-which, on second thought seemed to be a bad idea as a wave of pain and nausea swept over him.

He froze in his half seated position to let the discomfort subside as much as it would, while he evaluated his current situation. _(had there been a time when he was in this much pain before? Something in his mind seemed to think so, but... all he knew now was fire and pain and –)_

The sky above him appeared to be metal- but above that through smoked filled cracks he could tell that that sky was false. Darkest blue and hints of stars stared back at him through the fog. He was in a box of sorts, with rounded corners, that had been twisted out of its original cylindrical shape by a massive outside force- _(Going to lose that wing, grab the damned chute already, and get your skinny ass out of here-)_ rendering it useless scrap, barely resembling what it had originally been.

Heat found him, some organic strapping material or perhaps coating for one of the myriad of wires that he could barely make out through the watering and stinging of his eyes. It dropped, embers still burning on his left hand, and the remains of a black glove. He jumped, forced to move before it could start eating through the leather to more tender skin below. He had to get out of this box or it would be his coffin- the realization came more swiftly as his mind started to catch up, become more aware. It didn't matter if it hurt to pull his aching body to unsteady feet, if his throbbing pierced through his mind like a- something. If he remained, it would hurt worse, to stay was to be burned alive, and that was one thing he didn't ever want to go through again. _(again?)_

His next problem presented itself firmly as he turned through the near familiar but now hellish twisted and broken cylinder. Through the haze, he hoped to find an exit, a break in the prison walls, what he found first was a figure slumped over a set of controls- it only took another heartbeat to recognize- to finally understand what his box truly was.

An airplane.

And the figure in the sideways twisted and broken seat must have been the pilot.

_(Don't be an idiot, we're both-)_

The thought, the memory, perhaps, was gone as soon as it had come, and just as swiftly forgotten. The pilot, however- was he alive as well?

One could certainly hope not, with the dark stains puddling on the clothing, and around the chair. One could only hope that that brave figure _(or foolish?)_ was not suffering from the injuries that had come about from the way the nose of the plane shattering, sending glass and metal shards flying- driving them into vulnerable flesh. Or with the way that the entire front of the vehicle had caught the body, as it had hurtled to an impact whose momentum –

So much blood...

And yet, when he forced himself to walk to the corpse, to touch the still-warm shoulder and make certain, the pilot gave a peculiar little whimper that tugged at him deep within his bruised chest.

Oh God, still alive.

But in grave danger.

The decision of whether or not to move the badly injured man and aggrivate the wounds inflicted by the crash- and it had been a crash- wasn't difficult.

If he was left in this wreck, he would burn, and most certainly die. He could attempt to stop the bleeding in relative safety outside, and just hope that there would be a chance. Hell, there was a better chance if the pilot was moved, than if he just stood there and dithered about whether or not he should be risking his life to save a stranger.

_(That's what a hero does- risks everything for someone who needs help...)_

He had to act quickly, no matter what he did. There had to be an exit near, something in his mind reminded him, and he tugged at the dead weight with a wince. He was relieved to find that none of those projectiles had pinned the other man in place, that would have made this closer to completely impossible, rather than merely difficult. The pilot didn't react to the touch, the movement- hopefully unconscious. Hopefully would remain so while he practiced what little first aid that he knew-

But there was no more time to dwell and dwaddle- he might himself ache abominably from his own injuries, and from breathing this foul smoke, however this pilot-

Was heavy. One arm over his shoulder, and held tightly, the other around the pilot's waist, half dragging, half carrying him up the pathway towards that place that instinct told him an exit would be.

And it was there, the door itself had most likely been jarred loose upon impact, and probably lay somewhere within the trial of debris that he could barely see as he maneuvered himself and his burden through the hatchway- careful to mind the steep drop to the ground.

The forest had a pathway carved through it, from where the plane had plowed through the trees in what may or may not have been a controlled crash. Most likely not, considering the state of the pilot, the plane, and the passenger-

Had he been a passenger on this- no. It wasn't that sort of an airplane. It was – images of violence filled his thoughts momentarily, however the soft whispering gasp of breath in his ear distracted him.

"Got to... get away... before they find..." The pilot was barely conscious- of course he was, the hard part was over, and he'd been carried through- "I-Sorry..."

It felt as though the weight of the world had been let loose on his shoulder, and suddenly he understood. The pilot had been at least partially conscious through the evacuation, attempting to move under his own power and keep the burden lighter- but now-

The man was slipping from his own weakened grasp, and all he could do was try to ease the fall, so there wouldn't be any new injuries to add to the tally that he suspected was quite long already.

Blood, blood. More blood.

Was there any part of this pilot that wasn't covered with scrapes and injury, and blood?

Coughing out the smoke that he'd inhaled, he studied the prone man.

Blond. Regular features _(though bruises and swelling marred how pretty he actually was)_ \- the thought shook him for a moment. He didn't recognize this man, instead returning to the survey of injuries. Eyes closed, with the cracked remains of a pair of glasses somehow still perched on the obviously broken nose- bruises. More bruises. The brown leather jacket had obviously deflected some of the smaller debris, and slowed down some of the larger- but still, the light colored uniform beneath was stained dark with blood which still oozed around the large shard of metal protruding from the right side of his chest.

From his chest.

It couldn't be anything less serious, something that he could handle with a few plasters and some bandages, and maybe a compress. The smaller injuries to his companion, perhaps he could handle with such and sundry- if he had them- but this...

His headache worsened, bringing with it a nausea that drove him away from the wounded man to vomit leaning against one of the trees- now on fire, he noted with a sense of resignation. His head hurt. His body ached, and somehow the realization that he'd just rescued a man he couldn't save made his chest hurt. He didn't even know the man's name, despite the faint sense of familiarity about him.

He couldn't just ask- unconsciousness aside- he should know the name of the insane idiot who'd gotten him into this mess. He did, just as well as he knew his ow-

A blink, as the nausea returned.

Damn it, he knew his own na-

"Fuck me." He gasped aloud. "Fuck..."

He didn't know- how could he not know- why did he- His head throbbed again, nearly driving him to his knees.

He had to know. Had to find out. The pilot- had they been friends? Perhaps acquaintances. The pilot would certainly know who he was, but-

Uniform. Military.

He looked down at his own clothing, for the first time since noticing the ragged black gloves in the plane. A similar uniform on himself, but coloured differently- They were soldiers. Perhaps enemies?

No. He doubted, somehow, that that other man would so docilely allow him to touch, hold- help- if he were an enemy. But the thread of memory that had sparked with the thought of uniforms wasn't completely gone. Military men had identification, in case of situations where they could no longer speak- his tattered glove was stripped from his hand, and tossed to the ground as he frantically tore open the collar of his shirt _(not so stuffy now, while you're a little rumpled-)_ digging for what he knew should be there, fingertips finding warm metal- not fire warm, but body warm- next to his heart.

With trembling hand, he pulled out the tag and held it, squinting as he read the text engraved upon the piece of tin. His name, where he came from, his life.

Arthur Kirkland, London, England, UK.

And a series of useless unfamiliar numbers, but the important part was there. He was Arthur Kirkland, of England, although right now that comfort was weak, facing the inevitability of the death of that pilot, a man he might know- who would die, if Arthur Kirkland didn't at least attempt to do something to save him. He needed to know the man's name, at the very least.

Limping back to the man, Arthur knelt, careful not to touch the metal, as he carefully unbuttoned the shirt, cautiously tearing as he exposed the minor cuts that had bled so badly. The major wound wasn't bleeding as much- at least not externally. How was he supposed to deal with this- with the tears that were forming in the corners of his eyes. The smoke, he excused himself. That must be what's doing it.

A glint of metal caught in the flickering firelight, and Arthur bent to read whatever name might be given to this man, this –

_(Old man- you don't really have to escort me on this flight. My people are fine-"_

_"What if I want to go, you idiot-")_

Arthur must know him. Though the voice he'd heard from the pilot before wasn't anywhere near the brash and fairly loud voice from those memories that trickled through the embers of pain in his mind. The man before him had been nearly silent, whispering- but then, he basically had a metal stake through his chest, and was probably in horrible amounts of pain-

Alfred F. Jones, Washington DC, USA

If he'd hoped for a shining moment, a burst of light and joy that would herald the return of coherency, and the end of this headache that was obviously keeping him from remembering beyond waking in the flaming wreckage of a Liberator B _(He should know the model, and its capabilities, because Alfred wouldn't stop telling him about-)_. Arthur winced again. He was sorely disappointed.

He would be better off right now if he would stop trying to think, or remember. All Arthur needed to know right now was how to keep this baby faced young man from dying. He looked so damned young-

The boy's breath was hitching softly, as his body tried to compensate for the foreign object that had been thrust between his ribs, and probably through a lung, or some other vital organ. Collapsing a lung, and making this bad situation worse- _(Where did this knowledge come from, this realization of slightly more than basic first aid.. long practice?)_ \- a brief check of the mouth, and an ear to the cool skin of a blood soiled chest told him there was fluid building up in the lung.

Fuck.

The feeling of helplessness washed over Arthur as a little dry voice in the back of his head told him that pulling out the metal would be a bad idea, that Alfred was already in severe shock, and that without a real medical professional, he would die. Not necessarily within minutes, but certainly within the day.

And Arthur didn't even know where they'd crashed, let alone where the nearest hospital was-

So lost in thought was he, allowing his hands to automatically tear the already ruined uniform, and bandage the more minor injuries to the pilot in front of him, that Arthur entirely missed the crashing of footsteps through the bushes, the gutteral bark of men looking for something-

He'd forgotten Alfred's words of concern, and as the gray-cloaked soldier stopped in front of them, Arthur merely looked up with a plea in his face.

"Please, help him-" The second blond man stared down at him with a look that mingled surprise, horror, and perhaps a little spark of compassion. Before he could continue, something struck the back of his head, sending him spiraling back into the darkness.

Arthur only hoped that he hadn't just landed on Alfred. The poor boy couldn't take much more injury.

And then there was nothing.


	2. Rising to the Echoes

**London: Early Dawn**

Matthew awakened screaming.

In the harsh light of an ashy dawn, the red rays of the sun found his pillow far too easily for his tastes. Canada just fell back on the white fabric, once the echoes died, and tried to find the reason for the unfounded terror that was making his heart race.

Perhaps not so unfounded.

Alfred had told him that the mission was a simple one- provide a radar jamming escort for the bombing fleet, and home before midnight. He'd even poke Matthew awake, once he returned, just so his worry-wart brother would be satisfied that the danger was over for at least this night.

But it was morning- early morning, but still- and Matthew had slept through the entire night. There had been no wake-up call at midnight, no brother to tease him about his concern. Why didn't Alfred understand- this was _war_ and being shot down, or crashing, or a million other things was entirely possible. Granted, it was unlikely to kill one of their kind, but still-

The nightmare started resurfacing in pieces, causing his heart rate to jump again.

_"They tagged the engines- We're losing pressure. Everybody-"_

_A village- not a terribly large one, but still, one that was fairly well lit, obviously inhabited, and... if he didn't do something, this plane would..._

_"Damn it, you idiot, this isn't a time to play hero-"_

_Pain. Overwhelming pain- and the sensation of drowning and burning at the same time-_

A pounding on the door to the small quarters jerked him out of the memories.

"Canada? Canada, are you all right? You were screaming, aru-" China? Why would Yao- Oh. That's right. He was in London for the meeting that was to happen today- but where was England? Wasn't he supposed to be on this floor?

The door cracked open, admitting the small dark haired figure.

"Canada?"

"I was... dreaming." Matthew admitted, as he clambered out of the bed to shake loose fragments of dreams that might still be clinging to his sleeping attire. "I was waiting for Al to return, and fell asleep. I guess- have you seen him yet? Or England?"

The Asian man's face remained neutral, though Matthew could almost swear there was a hint of something else in the deep brown eyes. Regret?

"England went with America, as an observer- the squad just landed two hours ago. They lost three fighters, and an escort-" Yao frowned, crinkling his youthful brow.

"That's not good." Matthew couldn't shake the looming gloomy feelings, "America must be annoyed- those were his pilots. But the escort-"

"The Liberator went down somewhere between Hannover and the Netherlands boarder, aru. Parachutes were spotted-"

"Went down..." Matthew tried to keep the sudden panic from his voice. "That- please tell me- that it wasn't- that it couldn't be- It couldn't be-"

Echoes of the dream slammed into Canada with the force of a bomb at the mournful gaze of their ally. Matthew shook his head swiftly, trying to deny the words that began to echo far too loudly in the small room.

"I am very sorry, aru," China reached over to place a comforting hand on Canada's shoulder. "The RAF Liason has confirmed it, we were waiting until you awakened to let you know- There were parachutes spotted, as I mentioned, even if they were deeply within German occupied territory, there is still a chance that they are fine."

"Damnit... Al..." Violet eyes watered, stung, "England..."

"If they have landed safely, and can evade capture, they can make their way to safety, my friend, they are both far too stubborn to give up, and there is still a resistance in France, no matter how small, and they will head for French territory as soon as they are able. There are a few networks that reach that far into Germany. We have sent word to those who can look for them with relative ease already- we should hear something soon, aru."

"But... what if they didn't..." The dull discomfort, almost an ache in Matthew's chest sharpened, became more prominent. "What if there was a reason that they couldn't make it off the plane-"

"There were parachutes spotted, Canada, there is little chance that they would remained behind for any reason, aru." China still had that look of concern in his eyes. And a slight hint of doubt- or perhaps that was just Matthew's own feelings.

"I know, but-" The discomfort sharpened again, growing to a stabbing ache as his breathing hitched, grew ragged. The sensation of drowning slipped into him before he could finish uttering the thought.

"Canada?" The note of concern tugged at him- pulled at him- yanked. He vaguely found himself staring blankly into Yao's eyes, drowning in the dark depths. Not so dark as Japan, but still with an almost magnetic pull- drowning..."Canada, what is wrong?"

He continued to stare, unseeing as he mentally checked over himself and the link to his people and land. The land itself was unharmed; his people were not in any mortal danger, nor being threatened more than what was normal for this war; he hadn't been in combat for a week himself. Nothing out of the ordinary was wrong, and yet-

_drowning fear hurt worry pain pain pain can't breathe fear worry agony drowning more pain_

The emotions seemed distant somehow, as though he was parted from them by a heavy fabric, like the pain that he was feeling was not really his own, and yet were so familiar to him, as though they were a part of-

The realization snapped Matthew back into full awareness.

"Al..." Canada whispered, feeling/not feeling a mouthful of blood choking him, being forced out of his body and passing over his lips. The connection to his brother- to his _twin_ \- whose boarders lay along his own, openly allowing their peoples to mingle and pass, and-

It abruptly cut way, breaking, and leaving him reeling. Only China's grip on his upper arms prevented him from falling.

"Matthew!" The frantic voice called him, over and over again, "Matthew, aru!"

"He's hurt... dying... " Matthew managed to choke out, the echo of the taste of blood fading with the pain. That was what the nightmare had meant. Half remembered images flew at him. "He didn't make it out of the plane- the idiot stayed behind to keep it from crashing into a village- Fucking idiot- things like that happen in wars, why did he do that, why-"

"Canada. Matthew." China's grip tightened, "We do not know what happened, other than the fact that their plane was shot down, aru."

"But I know." Matthew's eyes went wide. "I know that Al- I thought it was a dream, but it wasn't mine, and just now I felt him drowning in his own blood- he tried to be a hero, and save some little German village that would've been in the crash zone, and he was trying to make England bail out, and he crashed, and -"

"You are connected with him?" Yao didn't look as skeptical as he had before, more... interested. "That is right, you are _shuang bao tai_. Paired by birth. Canada, I have never seen a Nation die from something as simple as an accident, however it does not mean he would not be suffering, or that he is not in danger. I hope that what you had was a simple nightmare, brought on by bad food and the stress of a loved one put into danger, aru."

"It wasn't." Matthew said simply, trying to find a thread of that mental connection. "It doesn't happen very often- but when it does... I felt the echoes of his civil war, and more recently, Pearl Harbor. He knew about Halifax the same way. This was the same- it's like he was trying to reach for me, but at the same time, keep this to himself. An instinct to look for comfort."

"Then he is severely injured and in enemy territory. Did America succeed at forcing England to leave? If he did, then the chances are high that England will find him first, and bring him out."

"I- I don't know. It was all too fast, and scattered. A memory not my own that wasn't intact- I don't know if he hit his head, or just blacked out- China, we have two allies missing in action, and one that has been nearly incapacitated within his own lands. I'm afraid." Matthew swallowed hard, "I'm afraid-"

"You are wise then," Yao said, with that neutral expression, "For not fearing such a thing is foolish, and not admitting that fear can be self-deceptive, aru."

"I can't just sit around waiting to hear something, China, I need to do something."

"There is little we can do, until we get more information from our networks," Yao raised a hand as Matthew began to protest, "However, if you will dress yourself, we can begin to coordinate what information we have with both England's and America's forces."


	3. Ste Jeanne Protégez-les

**Lille, France: Mid-Morning**

"And so, I told him that his mother was a hamster, and his father smelled of elderberries-" The rough gaffaw that followed was almost too loud for the half tumbled down shack, "And he was so startled, that he dropped his guard. You'd think he'd never heard such an insult before. I thought it was funny."

"I'm certain that it was very humorous, Jean-Louis, mon ami, but I doubt that the Germans will ever laugh at something like that. Perhaps if you used it at an Englishman-" The dark corner of the room gave him a sanctuary from the harsh daylight that poured through the cracks between bomb-loosed boards. For his own vanity, it was better to be veiled in shadow, than to be exposed in sunlight. Especially in this tacky military uniform, and especially with the bandages that covered enough of his face to make him almost unrecognizable. Not chiq, not even close to attractive. Damn his own weaknesses, and inability to stand up-

"I'm not certain that the Germans know how to laugh anymore." The third voice in the room was female, a lovely young lady who had lost her smile somewhere in the past few years. "I'd prefer if they had no cause to ever smile again, Francis- after what they've done to you, and to us-"

"Ah, Felice, mon petit chou- "

"Don't try sweet talking me right now, my Nation. I have a difficult job ahead of me. More questions, more orders, more codes- and the radio is starting to wear out." She gave the pale-eyed nation a wry look. "If trying to gather enough food to sustain our people as they work to gather intelligence is not enough, they have sent a priority alert. Do they not understand that we cannot be searching for every one of their pilots and crew that goes missing over German territories?"

Francis sighed heavily. They could not, he knew, be held to account for every single pilot that failed to be found. They could not stop and search for every missing and wounded fighter that the Nazi forces captured- or nearly captured. If the men that England had just all but commanded him to find didn't just turn up in their normal duties (Sabotage, scavenging, and spying, of course)- they would simply report that they had found nothing.

"They haven't asked us to do that before, have they?" Jean-Louis asked, bringing a cup of the barley-water that substituted for real coffee these days to where France rested in his ugliness concealing shadow. "Did they ask us to keep a look out, or actively look?"

"Active search." Felice answered, with a glance to Francis. "Honestly, I don't remember them ever asking us to actively search for someone before, unless they were extremely important, but these... An escort crew for the last bombing mission to Bad Roth airfields. They're not asking us to search for the entire crew, just the pilot, and an RAF observer. I wouldn't have thought anyone important would have been that close to actual combat. And I've never heard of anyone significant with the name 'Jones' or 'Kirkland'."

Francis froze, chipped porcelein mug resting on his split lip.

"Me neither," Jean-Louis chimed in, "Aren't pilots merely 'captain'?"

"Yes," Felice answered, "Captain Jones, and Major Kirkland- I can almost understand the English wanting one of their majors back that badly, but a captain-"

"Mes amis," Francis pried himself out of the chair, feeling his heart racing. It couldn't be. It couldn't be- they were not supposed to be in danger. If Germany found them- the things that the Nation's military police would do, if they realized what they had... This had to be some other pair of pilots that England was insisting they had to look for. "They are American and English, respectively, correct? Alfred F. Jones, and Arthur Kirkland-"

"Yes, Francis. But how – do you know them? Or why they might be considered important?"

"Yes, my lovely Felice." France sighed, as he managed to limp behind the radio operator's chair, holding onto her shoulder. A lovely support for an old and beaten nation, his child. "I have known them both for many years. The priority alert is well justified. We must find them."

"Pourquois?" Jean-Louis asked, "If they are still free, they will make their way towards us anyhow, and if they are not- London will probably find out which camp and free them."

"If they are free, Jean-Louis, I will kiss them both when I see them, whether they yell and strike me, or no." _Angleterre, you must not be captured, or I will be very cross with you—and America... if you are not free..._ France frowned, "Kirkland is very stubborn, and I doubt that Jones will allow himself to be held for long, even if they wished to capture him. Still, we absolutely must find them. I will go myself, once we are given a general location in which to search."

"You're injured, my Nation." Felice protested. "You can't-"

"I am not so badly injured that I cannot make an effort. If I had been stronger, perhaps they would not be in any danger to begin with."

The radio's familiar buzz cut off any retort that Felice would have made, and she turned her attention back to it.

"This is very important, is it not?" Jean-Louis stood close to France, ready to render aid, should his body give out. But Francis knew he would not fall. Not again- it was time for him to begin the fight once again- if his allies fell because of him...

"World-shaking important, mon ami. If they are lost, we may also be lost."

"Francis," Felice finally threw off her headset, and turned to give the Nation a sour look. "Just who are they, that London would divert an airplane to send us one man to help us find them?"

"They are sending someone?"

"Tonight, at provided coordinates south east of here, one _Captain_ Williams will be meeting with us to provide the necessary information."

"Matthieu..." Ah. Canada. It would follow- if Alfred was missing then Matthew would be worried. "I do not know precisely why he is the one to join us, however, I will say only that the men we seek are of my kind."

"They're-" Jean-Louis cut himself off. "I understand now."

Felice merely nodded.

"So, these coordinates. We should begin to break our little camp to find them- as much as I dislike leaving our luxurious surroundings, mon cher Matthieu will be anxious to move as soon as possible."

Jean-Louis moved efficiently to gather their munitions, while Felice packed the radio.

France whispered a little prayer to Sainte Jeanne for the safety of all, before he began to pack the rest of their gear.

They were going to need all the help they could get.


	4. Full Sail under the Autumn Moon

Another box.

He opened his eyes, as the box he was in swayed slightly, the sound of an engine echoing through the hollow space. Automatically, he felt for the metal tags around his neck, trying to reassure himself that they were still there, and that he had a name. He was Arthur. Arthur … something. And his head ached horribly, but that was minor compared to the injuries that the pilot-

Alfred.

Was he even still alive?

Alarmed, Arthur sat up straight, looking around the dim compartment, seeing the canvas canopy over an open truck bed's props- _Canvas sails straight and proud catching the wind_ \- to find a guard watching him with wary eyes. Gray and black uniform, unfamiliar/familiar. Perhaps this was one of the enemies that Arthur now vaguely remembered the pilot babbling about. There would have to be enemies, if they had been in a military aircraft, with military issue uniforms, and military identification. Judging from the way this soldier was staring at him, he was absolutely correct.

The truck swayed a bit, and Arthur squirmed in the bonds that he hadn't been aware of before. He couldn't see the pilot- what had they done with him? The guard looked slightly more alert, almost afraid of the movement. The clicking of metal on metal reminded Arthur that while the guard was armed, he was a mere prisoner.

"Where is the other man?" Arthur asked him, not entirely certain if the soldier would understand English. Apparently not as the man just stared at him, then glanced towards the dark area next to the truck's cab, where a canvas wrapped figure lay- dark red-brown staining the unbleached material.

"Oh god. No." Arthur thought he might be ill. Black spots swam in front of his eyes for a moment, and the next thing he knew the enemy soldier had grabbed his shoulder, and was now three inches from his face.

"Nein, er ist nict tot." The hard blue eyes told him, then repeated in heavily accented English. "He is not dead. You are both special prisoners, but he is elsewhere, while they remove the foreign object from his body."

Something in Arthur almost relaxed at that. Almost. Alfred was being aided, albeit by enemies- but they were still prisoners, and he had no earthly idea of what-

"Wait.." Arthur said, as the words came back. Was it just a bad translation, or- "Special? How?"

"I was not told, other than you were to be treated more gently than a common citizen. Who are you, that General Beilschmidt would be surprised to see you?" The man waited for another moment to see if Arthur would answer, before returning to his post.

The Englishman could only look at the soldier blankly. Beilschmidt... he didn't know... or maybe he did- if only there wasn't that damned headache, so he could concentrate, and think- nausea washed over him once again, as he tried to force the memories to the surface. Retching, he tried to move, but found the post he was tied to would not let him do more than turn his head.

The soldier kept a fairly neutral expression upon his visage, as he simply watched Arthur up-heave the lack of contents of his stomach onto his left sleeve, and the bed of the truck. There was concern, however, in the shining eyes.

"When we stop for the night, I think a physician should see to you. The General would not like it if we neglected our duties. Perhaps you will be able to see your friend for a moment." Unexpected kindness from the mouth of an enemy- the part about seeing his friend. Although Arthur wasn't completely sure that he was even close to the pilot- Captain Jones, as his dogtags had named him.

"Where are we going?" Arthur swallowed, tried not to cough more acid through his windpipe. That would only make things worse. "I mean, the ultimate destination- I assume it will take more than a day."

And they were special prisoners indeed, if Alfred Jones was being transported separately.

Either that or this General knew the two of them, and thought that together they might cause some sort of ruckus, and escape- _United we stand, and all that_.

The words that passed through were a bit bitter, even if they were true.

"Berlin." The simple one-word answer came. "We stop at Kassel for tonight."

"Why are you answering my questions so easily?" Arthur asked, unsure if the answer might be 'because the two of you are being handled with kid gloves so that my boss can rip you apart himself'. That would be... likely. He wasn't sure he really wanted an answer to his questions now, but he asked them anyway. "Why are you being kind?"

"Because General Beilschmidt said that you were to be treated more as a guest for now, and there is no chance that the information will be useful to you. And... you remind me of someone I once knew."

"Ah." Arthur said numbly. "I see."

But he didn't. Not really.

The engine's rumble soothed him back into a troubled slumber that was filled with fire, fear, and small winged creatures that called to him from the clouds sailing outside the small airplane windows.


	5. Taking Wing

**London: Late afternoon**

"Do not forget to contact us as soon as you find them, aru." China tucked another small silk bag in one of Matthew's pockets, herbs, possibly? "That herb is for when you find them. It is good for bruises- it can be made into tea, or the leaves may be chewed. There a few more remedies within your medical kit that will help your brother, if he is as badly injured as you believe. I left you notes."

"I understand." Canada gave China a faint smile, as he started for the transport that would take him to France. He'd not really expected to be believed as readily as he had been, nor had he expected that they would entrust him with this- but they had, and both Alfred's and Arthur's people had equipped him in short order and arranged for this transport. "Take care of Kuma for me. We'll all be back soon."

The flight was as quiet as one could have imagined a large engine plane could have. Very few of the British SOE crew actually talked to Matthew, as he nervously sat in the holding area that he would be parachuting out of as soon as dark fell. He didn't blame them- they were going into enemy territory, they needed to focus on their job, just as he needed to focus on his.

Briefly, he touched the maps concealed in his breast pocket. Maps marked by those who had survived the mission. A more pinpointed location than China had been able to give him early this morning. He'd been right, he found, correct in the existence of a village directly in the flight path that would have been damaged by a plane as large as one of America's bombers hitting it dead center.

'It looked like it was going into a controlled glide,' one of the tailgunners from the other escort had told him, 'Only saw eight parachutes- should have been eleven- and the craft kinda pulled its nose up for a while- right up until the wing fell off. Think it missed the houses. I kinda hope Cap'n Jones wasn't still on there, but trying to save a bunch of Kraut civies seems like something he'd do..'

Matthew shuddered at the mix of memories, both dream and story. The conversation had cemented it; the plane had crashed with at least his brother aboard. The dream had been too scattered for him to tell if England had managed to escape or not. So he was flying into occupied territory to find out for certain.

He suspected that the main reason that China had been so supportive about sending him was because it would mean that the main European allies would be kept busy, however the Nation had seen what had happened to Canada that morning. If Alfred was alive (And he had to be, Nations didn't die that easily), Matthew would be able to feel it- and better, he might even be able to sense how close he was to his brother.

They were, after all, linked by more than just sharing a continent.

The drop point was still a half hour away, and Canada was ready.

He only hoped that nothing else would go wrong for the Allies today.

 


End file.
